The Pale Door
The glass shatters against the stone, a sound like a bone breaking in the quiet dark. You look down at the spill, the iridescent liquid pooling in the cracks of the flagstones, and you see your own reflection fractured into a dozen trembling pieces. It is three in the morning, and the workshop is cold enough to freeze the breath in your lungs, the air thick with the cloying, sweet scent of the...
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